


An Exercise In Retrospection

by eyeus



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: M/M, Reminiscence, Reunions, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeus/pseuds/eyeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Watson deems Holmes the paragon of aesthetic appeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Exercise In Retrospection

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Spoilers for A Game of Shadows

The finer details of his last adventure (misadventure, Watson thinks now) with Holmes dry slowly, the dark ink on paper a lingering moisture—not unlike the kind that threatens to spring to his eyes should he weaken and succumb to emotion.

Eyes which last glimpsed his oldest friend tumbling over the balcony at Reichenbach Falls, locked in a deadly embrace with Moriarty. A search amid the starkly scenic cliffs and the rushing water below had yielded no sign whatsoever of the detective or the professor. 

Watson continues tapping in his transcription, wondering if Holmes’ efforts had been so focused on Moriarty’s demise, that he had not factored Watson into his final calculations. Or if Holmes’s thoughts became muddled when it came to him. 

If Holmes had even had a plan, besides that of self-sacrifice. 

The doctor inhales deeply, his breath slow and pained. Holmes _must_ have known what he was doing; his efforts, after all, have been for Watson this entire time. With that thought, Watson’s mind drifts back to another instance of the detective’s exertions for his sake.

He had not thought it at the time, hanging precariously off a train bound for Brighton, with the biting wind of the desolate countryside battering their bodies. Upon reflection, however, Holmes’ words regarding their predicament warm him immensely.

“Moriarty’s men are here for _you_. Fortunately…” Holmes’ pause had been punctuated by a fiery explosion to their left. “So am _I_.”

This is not so much a revelation as a certainty, because Holmes has _always_ been there for him. In spite of himself, the memory of Holmes’ clashing makeup and Glasgow smile of smeared lipstick red, Watson thinks his detective had never looked more beautiful than in that moment. 

_That is not entirely true._ Watson pauses at the soft _ping_ of the typewriter, hand hovering above the lever that will bring him to the next line. The last line.

It was the look of serenity on his face, as Holmes disappeared into the falls, his silent farewell that seemed to say so much—a plea for absolution, a wish for his friend’s safety and happiness _(so long, old boy, thanks for all the memories)_ , and finally, peaceful acceptance of his fate—that continues to haunt the doctor, even in his sleep. 

If only he could have done something, concealed a weapon for attack; if only he had acted as Holmes’ own sharpshooter, as Moran had for Moriarty; if only Holmes had depended on him _more_. But he had entrusted Watson to the greatest task of all, in finding the lone gunman in the ballroom and averting imminent disaster. 

He knew Holmes’ methods, after all. And he knew where the detective would be. 

What he had _not_ anticipated was the detective’s final solution and destination. 

Watson keys in “THE END” on his manuscript, the words stamping a chilling finale on their time together, one he cannot bear to accept. He swallows hard, forcing back the lump of tension at his throat, eyes slipping closed as he thinks of 'the end'. Had Holmes’ life flashed before his eyes, as he hurtled toward his roaring grave? Had he seared the doctor’s image into his memory, whatever little there was remaining?

With a sigh, Watson pushes away the thought of Holmes lying alone, deep within the falls, the sickening crunch he imagines Holmes made when dashed among the unforgiving rocks. Since then, Reichenbach Falls has no longer held the same mysterious allure, becoming instead the misted tomb for his friend, his confidant, his—

—fingers brush against the rough paper of the parcel sitting next to the typewriter. The typewriter remains Watson’s only solace, on which he relives his escapades with Holmes, through the blur of peace summit proceedings, Holmes’ funeral, and Mary’s insistent pleas of honeymoon commencement (it would be good for him, she claims, good for _them_ ); through the grief-induced haze of days that followed, the excess of nights at gambling dens, and the constant struggle to maintain a façade of normalcy. 

Still, the inconspicuous packaging piques his curiosity. He unfastens paper and twine, unearthing the wooden box within and slides the thin panel back. 

A familiar brass contraption with its gaudy red mouthpiece nestles innocently in the box, and Watson draws in a sharp, stunned breath as Mycroft’s description of it

_(private and personal supply of oxygen)_

rushes back to him. 

“Mary!” he calls after her, hobbling toward the sitting room. “Who delivered this parcel?”

Mimicking a postal worker would take no effort at all, considering Holmes’ uncanny ability at the art of deception. Watson drags his hand along the wall for support, ignoring the faint tremor in his hand, the way his knees threaten to buckle beneath him. He must move faster, his damn leg must cooperate, as he has people to see and inquiries to make, but first—first, he should return to his study, for he needs his walking stick, needs to replace the contraption in its box for safekeeping, needs—

Holmes. 

In his study, with fingers poised lightly over the typewriter, sits a mirage of the very man he has grieved for, an illusion born of his most desperate hopes. The spectre of his detective glances at him with a sheepish grin, dark hair obscuring the mischievous gleam Watson knows he will find in those eyes. Answering with his own blue gaze of disbelief, Watson releases the breath he has held, relief and anger flooding his senses at the sight of Holmes after all this time. 

Never mind the train, the waterfall, or how ridiculous Holmes seems in his maroon and gold patterned ‘urban camouflage’— _this_ is Holmes at his most beautiful, for the aching joy and _hurt_ in Watson’s chest at his return are more than he can stand. 

“Watson,” begins Holmes, shattering the moment despite the careful calmness in his voice, “I assure you, there is a perfectly rational explanation for every—”

_Everything_ , Watson decides, is not nearly enough, as he steps forward and drives his fist into Holmes’ midsection. This man has cost Watson his sanity as many times as he has saved it, and their exchange involves no words, only a one-sided round of fisticuffs that the doctor knows cannot last. His blows land only because Holmes _lets_ them, and at this new awareness, Watson’s fists drop uselessly to his side, a silent question on his lips: _Why?_

Agonizing silence stretches between them, and Watson's gaze moves to the angry red welt under Holmes’ eye. It will bruise, and though it is a pity to mar his face, a keen, bitter satisfaction runs through Watson; he has left his mark on Holmes, _his_ Holmes, just as Holmes left his mark on the doctor when he disappeared over the falls, one he would never know. 

Until now.

Only an arm’s length away, Watson stares hard at Holmes, suddenly aware of the bounding pulse at his own throat, the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the way his attention is drawn obscenely to the rivulet of blood at the corner of Holmes’ mouth. 

His thoughts slip toward the indecent, more so than he cares to admit, but he cannot be bothered to hide his reaction or where his gaze settles, because Holmes sees _everything_. And while Watson’s deductive prowess is nowhere as acute, even he can perceive the curious change in Holmes’ demeanor. The detective’s mask of infuriating calm has been replaced by something darker, desiring: the fierce look of a man who sees what he _wants_. 

Watson’s reciprocated intensity makes his fist curl tight by his hip, while a stiff coil of heat twists in his belly, indicative of his warring desire to strike Holmes again or to commence contact more intimately. Perhaps he should do both, to be safe.

Just as his eyes stray toward Holmes’ lips again, the detective produces his clay pipe, lighting the shag with forced nonchalance. “Well,” he murmurs, exhaling a slow, precise breath. His eyes meet Watson’s boldly.

“Well,” Watson replies. 

He holds his gaze steady, a last stalwart defense against being swept into the detective’s pace. Before anything else, Holmes _will_ explain his absence and his motives, if Watson has anything to say about it, and he does: their phrase for any insurmountable challenge, be it scaling runaway trains, escaping from munitions factories, or initiating long-awaited reconciliations. 

“Crack on, then.”

At Watson’s words, a familiar half-smirk rises to Holmes’ lips, which is all the doctor can see, the sweet, dizzying smoke from Holmes’ pipe all he can breathe in, as everything that is and ever was _Holmes_ crowds out his senses, leaving him helpless to resist.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** First attempt at writing these two; I hope it proved an enjoyable read. Took slight creative license with some of the minor details. ~~Tiny AC reference is tiny.~~


End file.
